Do not stand at my grave and weep
by slash mania
Summary: The fact that he'd filled this room with things that never actually belonged to them, the things that were temporary objects that filled temporary, rented rooms during their jobs together only intensified the transitory nature of their relationship. That could be said of any relationship, really. In the larger scheme of life, the world, the universe, everything was temporary.


There was a knock on the door of Eames's rooms in the Dreaming. They were spacious and well appointed, but not overdone. When Dream had played the polite host and walked Eames to these rooms- furnished and appointed in the style of any luxury hotel suite, maybe- they had remained that way till Eames had begun to spend time in them when visiting the Dreaming and its master; falling asleep in the waking world and then finding himself exploring the castle, meeting the valued servants, or speaking to Dream for hours, before finally going alone to his own rooms to rest. After several visits, Eames began to notice that things within the room had changed.

Because while the rooms still reminded him of any hotel suite he'd been exposed to in the waking world, they also resembled one of the many nice hotel suites he'd shared in the past with Arthur when they were working. In fact, this room was now made up of bits and pieces of those past rooms, something that he hadn't thought possible until he considered his long years of practice manipulating things in dreams. Dreaming up or replacing the things his host had left within the room would have been child's play for an experienced dreamsharer. Eames still wasn't sure how to feel about this development as he'd not done it intentionally and hadn't been successful during any of his attempts to change it back.

He imagined the uncomfortable conversation with Dream would go like this:

 _Dream, could you please make this room a blank slate again so I won't hurt your feelings by being so attached to the forgery I fell in love with up above? Even if all I ever manage to offer_ you _is_ _polite interest?_

Eames cringed at the thought. He would rephrase it to himself as being _politely intrigued._ Dream was fascinating, his stories and artifacts were fantastic. He was an idea brought to life, the manifestation of a verb with power greater than a god. And he'd been hiding behind the form of Arthur, a creation, through out the duration of their relationship, only revealing himself when his time as Arthur was done.

The forger looked around the room filled with things that reminded him of Arthur, thinking of all the things he'd had to get rid of in the waking world, and how those items sometimes made an appearance in this room, as well.

The fact that he'd filled this room with things that never actually belonged to them, the things that were temporary objects that filled temporary, rented rooms during their jobs together only intensified the transitory nature of their relationship. That could be said of any relationship, really. In the larger scheme of life, the world, the universe, everything was temporary. That everything eventually came to an end, and Eames was still fighting letting go.

Eames swallowed hard, and took a deep breath, just trying to steady himself. He was planning a funeral, it was natural for these feelings to bubble up to the surface of his thoughts, or to announce themselves in his dreams. It didn't change the fact that these hints and signs of his point man made Eames feel rude to his host.

So Eames stood up from the leather desk chair he and Arthur had once used to rebandage wounds in relative comfort, and had the same tiny bloodstain that Arthur had sworn no one would notice. Eames walked past the full size bed that, at the time, they hadn't been able replace or switch with a Queen because of some stupid mix-up with rooms, leading to a series of dumb _We're gonna need a bigger bed_ jokes and swearing to not shove each other out of the bed mid-cuddle, and then reached the door. Eames pointedly didn't even glance at the lamp that Arthur once had to use as an improvised weapon when someone tried to break into their rooms after a dicey job, the ugly framed print that Eames had altered with a sharpie because it made Arthur smile, or the bathroom with the generously sized bathtub Eames and Arthur had agreed would be perfect to fill with cash from the Fischer job so they could see what sitting in that much money felt like.

Even as he tried to ignore the presence of those items when he moved to answer the door, Eames felt a pang of _something_ , some emotion he was still having trouble coming to terms with.

It only reminded Eames of the many places he'd lived and hidden away with Arthur. The dozens of safe houses that had bits and pieces of their lives together in closets and junk drawers, bedrooms and safes, and how Eames returned to each one to make the choice of cleaning them out and abandoning them or keeping them as they were. Either way, after speaking with Dream about what _he_ wanted done with the trappings and possessions of Arthur, Eames had to return to each place and remove what Dream said wasn't important, store what the Endless suggested be kept for someone else, and not worry about compromising information, identities, and criminal acts committed during Dream's time as Arthur.

 _"When I took on the identity of Arthur, I provided a means to dissolve that identity when necessary. Falsified records of Arthur's birth, education, time spent in the military, and all criminal activity would vanish once Arthur's function was complete._ _Proof of Arthur's existence would be wiped away- there would be nothing on paper, nothing electronic."_

"You even let some of the men who were trying to kill us live so they could spread word of Arthur's death, or what they'd only rationally assume was Arthur's death because they saw the wounds and didn't find the body," Eames had said, amazed that he was even speaking of such a thing. But it was the only thing that would make sense.

There had been a strange pause during the conversation Eames had started by asking Dream about what he'd want done about this and that, where Dream had looked concerned. There were times that the parts about his personality, his manner, reminded Eames so strongly of the point man, that Eames had to slip one hand into his pocket to touch his totem and remind himself that they were, in a way, the same person. Sort of. Dream's talk of Arthur not being real, of being a creation or a forgery, would never brush aside the fact that Dream had embraced living as a mortal man, treating the identity of Arthur as a reality. That while the death of Arthur wasn't exactly the same as the death of his previous aspect, it was a death all the same. It was about letting go of a part of himself, it was about changing.

 _"I can do all of that,"_ was what Dream had said after a moment searching for the right words. _"You shouldn't have to, Eames. If it hurts you, or upsets you, you shouldn't have to do it for me."_

Eames had understood that emotion behind it. Dream wanted to save Eames from an obvious hurt. Going through those things and visiting those safe houses and throwing things out was going to hurt a lot. So Eames had taken a deep breath and smiled for the Endless.

"I made a promise," Eames had said, not specifying who he'd promised because at this point it was all the same. That he'd mumbled it to Arthur once when they were both maudlin and drunk and thinking about what may or may not befall men in their line of work, Eames had promised Arthur he'd take care of it for him, as long as he'd repay the favor. "I made a promise," Eames repeated. "This could be cathartic, you know? Don't worry about it."

But it wasn't cathartic yet. Eames did the difficult things and felt like a robber going through what used to be Arthur's possessions, doing as Dream had asked and choosing specific things that would go to Cobb and his kids, something left to Ariadne, even a gift left to Yusuf, who Eames had been certain Arthur (and/or Dream) hated after what happened during the Fischer job. And there had been something that was unspoken between them; that Eames was free to keep whatever he wanted.

Eames kept several things that wouldn't look important to anyone else. The leather jacket Arthur owned in reality, but loved to wear down in the dreamscapes because it was familiar. The red die Dream had handed to him without a word because he knew why Eames wanted the point man's totem. The eyeglasses that Arthur sometimes used when he had to do hours and hours of computer research. A shoe box full of Moleskines, each one full of Arthur's handwriting and shorthand notes about work, about other things he wanted to remember, and each one was a wealth of memories.

For anything else, Eames did as said he would, but was still puzzled when certain objects would reappear in his dreams. Sometimes Eames found one or more of Arthur's things within the room, things he didn't keep, things he didn't want to think about too hard because he'd disposed of them while saying to himself, _Its okay, he'd understand. He already understands!_

His misplaced guilt was making Arthur's wristwatch appear on the night table, Arthur's toothbrush would be waiting next to Eames's on the sink, and the pair of godawful slippers Eames had bought Arthur would be under the bed, nearest to the side Arthur preferred to sleep on, even though the man was never going to put the damned things on again, grimacing over the ugly pattern but grateful for how warm the things made his chronically chilly feet feel. That was why Eames also ignored the nearby closet where Arthur's torn jacket was hung with care, having appeared there even though Eames had carefully folded it before disposing of it like so many of Arthur's things in the waking world.

Though it was hard for even Eames to accept, it looked as if he just wasn't ready to let go of any of it yet.

When he got to the door, Eames was sure that Dream was on the other side. He wasn't exactly sure _how_ he knew, but Eames had a gut feeling that Dream was on the other side of the door, patiently waiting in the hall while Eames attempted to ignore the things that filled this space and continued to remind him of Arthur.

In the short time he'd spent there, nobody else had knocked on the door. The servants knew their master wished for Eames to have privacy, especially now; he was sure that whoever or whatever was in the Dreaming and this castle probably got the equivalent of a memo titled _Leave Mr. Eames alone, he's planning a funeral._

Eames didn't make the Endless wait any longer. He forced a smile on his face and opened the door, hoping that Dream wouldn't immediately notice that nearly everything inside the room had some connection to Arthur.

 _"Hello, Eames,_ _"_ Dream said, smiling a half smile and standing before the door, still in the hall, as if he'd have waited there for as long as Eames needed.

"Hi," Eames managed, slipping one hand into his pocket and touching not just _his_ totem, but Arthur's, as well, not to check if he was dreaming, but just for reassurance. "What can I do for you?"

Dream had noticed the movement, probably understood that Eames was reaching for a totem, but didn't comment on it. In the weeks that he had visited, Eames had begun to study and categorize the appearance of his host. His eyes were so much more than the light of dying stars, maybe better described now as a friendly sort of twinkle as he smiled for Eames. Yes, Eames thought, friendly was the best description.

 _"I wanted to know if you needed any help with your plans."_

There was a hesitance to the dream lord's offer. Like the being knew there was a line and was afraid to cross it. That there was something intensely personal about getting involved with a loved one planning a funeral, even if that loved one was planning the funeral for the identity Dream once claimed. That it was personal because like the things in the room, it was a _Arthur and Eames_ thing, not a _Dream and Eames_ thing.

Not that Dream and Eames even really had anything beyond a mutual want to get to know each other now that Arthur, who previously tied them together in some way, was only present in memory. Yet it felt so much more than that.

Eames felt the thought sneak up on him as he watched Dream's face.

"You're not being invasive," Eames said, watching surprise wipe that carefully constructed look off Dream's face. "I think you should come to the funeral, not just try and help me plan it."

 _"What?"  
_

"I know that you didn't go to your last funeral, but that was different. It was completely different involving a series of rules and rituals about how you can't show up to your own funeral or meet your family until it was over. This is different. While Arthur was like a different aspect of you, you're still allowed to come and say goodbye."

Dream was at a loss for words. Eames never thought he'd be able to do that, but tried to view it as positive.

 _"I do want to say goodbye, if that's okay."_

Eames gestured that rather than stand uncertainly in front of Eames's door, Dream should follow him inside.

"Of course, what did you think I was going to say? _Thanks for hosting me in the Dreaming, stay away from the cemetery plot you bought and paid for as Arthur?"_

Dream didn't follow Eames inside, frowning in such an Arthurian way that Eames had to lean against the door frame and smile over how fond it made him feel. Fond, but with an edge of sadness because it made him think of the last time he'd caught one of Arthur's frowns.

 _"I wasn't sure,"_ Dream finally admitted. _"Death is a personal matter. Mortals react to it in different ways. I don't want to be a burden to you, considering that you've already done so much, Eames. You've done more than enough."_

Eames fought to maintain eye contact, even as his smile slipped. "The funeral is going to be hard." He gestured to the desk in the room, one of the few original pieces of furniture that came with the room as Dream had created it. There was a stack of papers on the desk, notes and lists of things related to the funeral. Almost everything was ready, all Eames had to do was make the arrangements in reality.

"Cobb's kids are going to be there, Dream. He called me and told me how they're doing, but wanted to know if I'd be okay with Phillipa maybe reciting something. Like poetry. I couldn't say no," Eames began to ramble a little, and was surprised when he felt Dream place one hand on his shoulder and squeeze, trying to be comforting.

 _"It'll be fine, I've walked through their dreams, you know? She's sad, but she'll be fine. Just like James will. And Cobb, and Ariadne, and whomever else is on the list. If it isn't any trouble, I would like to help you with other matters related to the funeral."_

Eames nodded. "The remains."

Dream agreed. _"Already taken care of. I've whispered in the dreams of the funeral planners, of the mortician. The way is being smoothed clear, and nothing will disrupt the service."_

"Are you- I don't know- upset that its going to be in the waking world? Would it be easier if it was all in a dream? Because we can do that if it's easier."

Dream shook his head. _"Mr. Eames, all that matters is what you want."_

"You, too. What you want matters, too!"

They stood like that for a moment, Dream with his hand still on Eames's shoulder, remaining a comforting presence and Eames struggling to think of what to say next.

But nothing else was spoken of.

* * *

"Do not stand at my grave and weep," recited Phillipa, already a preteen beginning to looked more pressed thin and rolled flat, rather than just gangly. It was clear that she'd be growing in leaps and bounds.

Eames swallowed hard as Phillipa continued to read from the paper she'd written the piece on, though according to Dream, she'd been practicing it over and over in her dreams the week before the funeral was scheduled.

"I am not there, I do not sleep."

He looked around at the people gathered together for Arthur's funeral; Cobb was holding James's hand, watching as his daughter read without faltering though it was clear she was already tearing up as she spoke of rain and snow, sunlight and stars, birds in flight and all sorts of uplifting images that defied the finality of death.

He'd not expected a large turnout, but was satisfied when he saw the others from the Fischer job arrive to pay their respects, not just to the dead point man, but to Eames, as well. There were hugs, solemn handshakes, tearful apologies because, as many of them said they'd known how much he and Arthur cared for one another. If Arthur were there, he'd probably mention that it was silly of them both to think they were fooling anyone with their bickering.

In the collection of people in black and deep blue mourning clothes, the two unfamiliar guests were unnoticed and quickly forgotten.

Death, all in black, stood on Eames's left and watched the young girl reciting poetry for her uncle. On Eames's right, stood Dream as another mourner, one that no one would recall once the funeral was over. No one would ever know who he was or what his relationship to Arthur had been.

Eames reached up to tug at the collar of his shirt, smoothing his hand down his tie. Eames had to stop himself from fidgeting in his dark suit, but he was fighting against the emotion roiling inside him; the urn wasn't even buried yet and all Eames could think about was how cold it'd be down there, and that Arthur hated the cold. That he didn't even have the slippers he hated. That he couldn't use the slippers because he was in an urn.

Dream nudged Eames's arm with his elbow, bringing their hands closer together, an unspoken offering. Eames reached for Dream's hand and squeezed tightly, not caring what it might look like from an outside perspective. He doubted that the guests would remember either Death's or Dream's presence enough to link it to how Dream held his hand or how Death laid her hand on his shoulder. The sight of their comforting Eames would probably slip from their minds as Phillipa finished reading the poem by Mary Elizabeth Frye.

"Do not stand at my grave and cry;/ I am not there, I did not die."


End file.
